Most would rather call me ripper... butcher... that's what I do at the end of the day. [ sitting back down and resting the cup against the join of leg and prosthetic with a soft sigh. much better. there's a small bit of relief. ]
I... [ uncertain of how to say anything about this. ] Sometimes I do not feel like one. But I'm sure you understand that. I am just doing what I can.
When there's blood on your hands, forgiving yourself isn't something that comes easily.
I certainly haven't... I can't go and tell you to do the same... but I can tell you that you are a good man. That you're good every day, mistakes and all. Even if you don't believe it... sometimes knowing that others see that in you—
[ a tug at the mouth, a faint smile. ] It's something. A drop in the bucket. You keep moving.
[he'll make an attempt to believe in it, at least.
for a second it looks like he means to say something, or ask something, but-- he pauses, stops himself, and mutters a quiet little nevermind as he picks up the cup to take a sip.]
The Theatre... the Director. [ a painful snarl ] that's where I go when I die. And every time I am told I've played my part wrong.
And every time they remove something from me. The ability to embrace the ones I care about. My ability to discern anything by touch. I am removed piecemeal with every death my body takes on. I have died too many times...
[...his grip on the cup tightens, and he takes a moment to set it aside as he inhales slowly, trying to steady the anger that wells up at the thought of this being done to io. if he doesn't, he might grip it hard enough to break.]
Here... here I'm free of it for now. He holds no quarter... not here. This... this isn't his stage and I am not an actor playing a role...
[ looking down into his cup, there's just a silence. ]
I've gotten used to it, people touch me and I them. And I am grateful... but I will have to tear myself away from it in the end. And it will be like tearing away a piece of my body. A limb. An organ. I will be a body connected to another body to another body... as many bodies as he has in the wings of his theatre... until my job is done.
even with the rest of it, with the knowledge it'll be like tearing something from him-- he reaches over to take hold of one of io's hands. tight. the kind of hold he doesn't intend to let him pull away from.]
[ stares at this hand grabbing his hand, and his expression tightens. grim. ]
I don't know. I am dying with every step I take. I may die again. And again. And after the work is done, if I succeed... maybe I will only have a little time remaining. I don't know how this play ends for me.
...think I get how people feel when they tell me I don't have to go back, but I can't say that to you.
[not with what io has told him already. not when gregor has told others: no, i have to go back. i don't get to run.
and when he thinks about it, really stops to consider... well.]
Io.
[a little pause, a breath.]
If you don't-- ever get any of that back. If you lose what he took from you for good, when you leave here. Is it going to be worse not to have lived it while you could, or is it gonna be worse to have it ripped away again?
You should just live like it's nobody's business, when you don't know what's left for you. That's... how I've always seen it.
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[something that had to be, but that-- at least ends up doing some good. ends up with saving people, with being in a position to help.
gregor takes the cup carefully, human hand curling around it to soak up the warmth.]
... you're a good man, you know.
[it's part of what makes gregor so fond of him.]
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I... [ uncertain of how to say anything about this. ] Sometimes I do not feel like one. But I'm sure you understand that. I am just doing what I can.
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[it's always been enough, here.]
I get it, though. Every time someone here tells me I am, I... almost don't wanna hear it.
[because what good has he done here, really. he hasn't done anything somebody else couldn't. his support could be replaced, if he were gone.]
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I certainly haven't... I can't go and tell you to do the same... but I can tell you that you are a good man. That you're good every day, mistakes and all. Even if you don't believe it... sometimes knowing that others see that in you—
[ a tug at the mouth, a faint smile. ] It's something. A drop in the bucket. You keep moving.
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Haah... you say stuff like that in a way I just might believe, you know? Careful with that.
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I'll take that as a compliment...
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[which gets a tiny little smile from him again, at least.]
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[he'll make an attempt to believe in it, at least.
for a second it looks like he means to say something, or ask something, but-- he pauses, stops himself, and mutters a quiet little nevermind as he picks up the cup to take a sip.]
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What is it?
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[ and then deadpan: ] Spill it.
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[look. if he's not bringing it up greg isn't sure he wants to.]
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[ gregor he is tired and half falling asleep with this cup in his hand because he got to sit in a cot. ]
If... you're being some kind of coy about last weekend...
[ dead eyes him like is that it? is that what you're talking about? ]
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[but, uh, yeah, looks like he nailed it there.]
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Well. I suppose. My first thought regarding that was...
[ tilting his head, uncertain. ]
Why?
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[a helpless little shrug, there, another sip of his drink. how do you even explain these things?]
But it wasn't just because of what was going on last week, making us touchier and everything, if that's what you were thinking.
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[ sometimes you just don't trust anything. ]
This isn't self-deprecating, I promise you, I...
[ unhappily shuffles my lore papers. ]
I could never return such things. I am... no longer permitted. It's part of... dying. I've done it too much. A punishment...
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[and what kind of punishment is that, anyway, to deny someone something like--]
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And every time they remove something from me. The ability to embrace the ones I care about. My ability to discern anything by touch. I am removed piecemeal with every death my body takes on. I have died too many times...
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[...his grip on the cup tightens, and he takes a moment to set it aside as he inhales slowly, trying to steady the anger that wells up at the thought of this being done to io. if he doesn't, he might grip it hard enough to break.]
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[ looking down into his cup, there's just a silence. ]
I've gotten used to it, people touch me and I them. And I am grateful... but I will have to tear myself away from it in the end. And it will be like tearing away a piece of my body. A limb. An organ. I will be a body connected to another body to another body... as many bodies as he has in the wings of his theatre... until my job is done.
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even with the rest of it, with the knowledge it'll be like tearing something from him-- he reaches over to take hold of one of io's hands. tight. the kind of hold he doesn't intend to let him pull away from.]
...and when your job's done?
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I don't know. I am dying with every step I take. I may die again. And again. And after the work is done, if I succeed... maybe I will only have a little time remaining. I don't know how this play ends for me.
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[not with what io has told him already. not when gregor has told others: no, i have to go back. i don't get to run.
and when he thinks about it, really stops to consider... well.]
Io.
[a little pause, a breath.]
If you don't-- ever get any of that back. If you lose what he took from you for good, when you leave here. Is it going to be worse not to have lived it while you could, or is it gonna be worse to have it ripped away again?
You should just live like it's nobody's business, when you don't know what's left for you. That's... how I've always seen it.
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HELLO DW I POSTED THIS
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